


Someone To Stay

by trashmovthtoziers



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Feels, Denied Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, Oblivious Richie Tozier, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 11:04:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13657710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmovthtoziers/pseuds/trashmovthtoziers
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak unhitched the window, scrutinizing the Richie that dangled from his windowframe. He had planned on telling Richie off — planned on listing off all of the possible ways his mother would kill him if she found out that Richie had been over at this time of night, but then, he had noticed the circle of blood that rimmed the inside of Richies mouth, and the words faded.





	Someone To Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Through the Window (Bet Your Fur) - trippinglungs was totally the inspiration for this!!

**RICHIE TOZIER**  dropped his rust-covered bicycle onto the unkempt lawn of his house once he said goodbye to his friends, watching them disappear behind the green street marker that read 'Witcham' and 'West Broadway' in bold letters. If he listened close enough, there was an imminent chance that the 'Hi-yo Silver! Away!' that Bill Denbrough shouted into the night could be heard.

It was quite late on an especially hot summer evening, and though the sun had dipped behind the horizon several hours before, the sizzling summer heat still brought perspiration to Richies forehead. It had forced all of the members of the Losers Club into the glistening waters of the quarry, where they spent the afternoon having chicken fights and splashing eachother until the pads of their fingers and toes began shriveling up.

Once they became tired of their adventures there, they swung their legs over their bicycles and pedaled into the center of town. On Costello Avenue, in the middle of the loop, was the place that served the best ice cream in town — Blue House Ice Cream. The Losers were regulars there, having spent more of their money there than at anyplace else in town. Eddie and Bill ordered french vanilla, Stanley settled on butter pecan, Mike and Ben chose strawberry, and Richie wanted an expensive scoop of just about everything. $1.28 down the drain, Richie devoured the entire thing with a personal record of only four brain-freezes.

After everyone had filled their bellies with delicious ice cream and had come to realize just how late it had become, the Losers pedaled back to their respective houses.

When Richie twisted the doorknob to the front door, he noticed that it had been unlocked. He figured that perhaps his father had forgotten something at home and had stopped by to retrieve it, and when he left, he had forgotten to lock the door behind him. He didn't think too much into it as he walked in, humming something that had played while he had been at the record store the previous day.

"Where the hell 'ave you been?"

Mrs. Tozier was stretched across the couch, an abandoned bottle of Jack Daniels clutched in her hand. Richie jumped, for the sharpness in her voice was almost cutting despite her drunkenness. It was strange that she wasn't passed out around this time, for she would normally start drinking earlier in the afternoon and succumb to alcohol before Richie came home.

"Out with my friends, Ma . . ." he responded, pushing back the apprehension that began creeping up his throat.

"'Ere?  _You_  'ave friends?" Mrs. Tozier was growling at Richie like she was one of the rabid raccoons that lived in the garbage cans behind the Aladdin theater. It was well-known that Maggie Tozier was an intimidating woman, for something about her demeanor showed that she meant business. It was surprising considering her frail bones and hollow structure, but something about her muted black hair and dull, mysterious eyes confirmed that she was a force to be reckoned with.

"Just down at the quarry with Bill, Stan, Mike, Eddie, and Ben. You remember them, don't you? When they came over that one time to shoot marbles?" When the Losers had come over 'that one time' they hadn't exactly been shooting marbles, they (or at least Richie and Bill) had been smoking out of Richies window while the others flipped through comic books or attempted to finish their homework.

Richie settled on not lifting his voice, for he wanted to placate her. Mrs. Tozier was not hostile toward Richie unless something made her, and alcohol was one helluva an influence on her decision.

"You're still hanging 'round those dumb fucks?" Richie flinched, looking downcast at his sneakers. "I thought you would've outgrown 'em. I'm disappointed in you." He did not feel ashamed with the words that his mother spoke of disappointment. He wouldn't let his mother crawl underneath his skin. He had half a mind that she had the complete power to strike him at any given moment, and he, of course, couldn't do anything about it. He had morals, even if she  _was_  just an ineffective drunk-of-a-mother. Richie Tozier associated with the fact that men should never strike women, and his mother was not an exception to the rule.

Mrs. Tozier had not been like this for her entire life — alcoholics were never like that. It might have been years before, but his mother had once been much kinder and much more involved in everything  _Richie_. He remembered that she had been involved in the PTA back when Richie had been in grade school, if that showed how parent-like Mrs. Tozier had once been. He remembered how she had once been so  _polite_ , so  _cultivated_ , and so  _beneficial_. Maggie Tozier might not have understood Richie and his friends — she might not have been satisfied when she birthed  _Richie_  instead of the delicate, porcelain girl that she had once prayed for — but she had still  _cared_.

Wentworth Tozier and his brand-new 'work habits' had changed everything, though, and not for the better. It all started when her husband began working later than usual. At first, he had called Maggie every time that he stayed late, telling her that there was an 'emergency patient in desperate need of a root canal' and that he wouldn't be home until late. But the thing was, Wentworth didn't  _do_  root canals. Maggie wasn't as dim-witted as her husband made her out to be. It wasn't something that she could stop without evidence, her husband could lie that he had started learning how to do root canals and that she was just paranoid from all the television that she watched and that he was most definitely  _not cheating on her_. Maggie was conniving, so she surprised him with an unexpected visit to the office and discovered him in the act of fucking his intern. It ended in screaming and yelling and the intern with an extensive scratch down her cheek, but Maggie and Wentworth chose not to divorce. Wentworth wanted the divorce more than anything, for he wanted the hand of his intern in marriage since he believed it to be love. But divorces require both signatures and loads of money of which they couldn't waste. Maggie wouldn't allow Wentworth her signature on the papers since she needed his money, so they never mentioned it and continued their loveless marriage. Maggie had turned to drinking after everything that had happened, spending hundreds of her husbands money on alcohol to spite him — in bitterness for what he had done to her.

Wentworth was never home after everything that had happened, deciding that he would much rather spend time with Stephanie (the intern that just so happened to be his fuck-buddy . . . wasn't that illegal?) and her college friends. Maggie started her drinking schedule after everything that had happened, not giving jack shit about Richie and his apparent existence considering she was teetering on the brink of senselessness.

While Maggie drank, Wentworth was absent. Richie would come home either late or not at all. It was an endless cycle — or so it seemed.

"I dunno who the 'ell you think you are, boy, but you do  _not_ get to waltz into  _my_ house whenever  _you_ damn well please!  _I_  make the rules 'round here!"

"I've been home later, Ma. It's not like you would know, anyway, considering you drink your weight far before then . . ."

"What is that suppos'd to mean?" screamed Mrs. Tozier, cornering him inbetween the bookshelf (of which was meant for books, hence the name, but was filled to the border with bottles of expensive wine) and the opposite wall. Richie trembled as she stepped closer, for he could smell the alcohol on her breath and could feel the wrath radiating through her pores.

"It means that you're a worthless drunk who passes out every night before ten just because you and your shit-for-brains husband had a loveless marriage! It means that all you fucking do is  _drink_  and  _drink_  and  _drink_  and not give jack shit about where I am or what I’m doing! But suddenly, right now, it matters! Why, Ma? Why the fuck do you care now?"

Mrs. Tozier — his  _own_   _mother_  — struck him across the mouth, so powerful that it had caused him to bleed. He must’ve bitten the inside of his cheek when she had struck him, causing blood to ensue. He had been able to taste the coppery substance inside of his mouth, so dense and viscous that he sputtered it onto the carpet.

"You have no right getting involved in  _my_  marriage! You don't know anything! Don't you fucking  _dare_  talk about me and your father like that, you worthless piece of trash!"

_youworthlesspieceoftrash!_

"I know enough to know that it was fucked up! I know enough to know that he loved that intern more than he ever loved you! More than he ever loved  _me!_ " Richie was relentless, still yapping without processing the words that escaped his mouth.

"GET OUT!" Maggie Tozier had screamed, so boisterous and so high-pitched that Richie was surprised when she hadn't shattered the expensive wine bottles that were displayed inside of the bookshelf.

Richie complied. He slammed the front door closed, the sound of bottles rattling following the harsh reaction. It had started pouring buckets while he had been inside, an immense difference to the summer afternoon that had graced him earlier that day. There were tears streaming down his cheeks before he could do anything to hold them in, flowing and flowing and connecting the constellation of freckles on his cheeks. It had been almost impossible to distinguish if the water trailing down his cheeks had been tears or rainwater, the water had blended together as it descended his cheeks.

He disliked the notion of having to sleep on the porch, disliked the notion of being anywhere  _near_  his mother at that moment, so he allowed himself to move. He remembered what Eddie Kaspbrak had told him several weeks before at Richies doorstep, 'I'll be there whenever you need me, Rich. If anything happens with . . . y'know . . . I'll be there if you'll let me.' Richie decided to let Eddie.

He retrieved his bicycle from where it had been discarded onto the ground, swung one leg over the side, and pedaled toward the Kaspbrak house as fast as he could. Thankfully, Eddie didn't live  _that_  far from Richie, and Richie knew the way like he knew the back of his hand. He cruised down Witcham Street, turned left on Jackson, passed the turn to Main Street, and found the yellow house with the dilapidated weathervane.

Richie had dismounted the bicycle before the spokes had stopped turning, discarding the rust-covered thing behind one of the neglected rose bushes around the side of Eddies house. Mrs. Kaspbrak had once been green-thumbed before she had Eddie — before Mr. Kaspbrak succumbed to disease and Mrs. Kaspbrak to the fear of sickness of which she passed onto Eddie.

There had been light in one of the windows — and Richie knew that the window belonged to Eddie Kaspbrak.

Richie worked his hands through his disheveled and soaked curls, rubbed his coke-bottle glasses clean of water, and moved into action. He had climbed up the side of the Kaspbrak house one time before, that time having been because Ben had dared him to. He had been dared because he had boasted about his so-called 'macho’, but that story was for another time. Anyway, when he had been dared, it hadn't been raining, and the ascension had been about as dry as bones. This time, though, rain fell from the heavens in torrents, and the sides of the house looked slick with rainwater. It had been difficult both times, that was the truth, for there was not but three footholds in the yellow paneling to support his endeavor, but it had been exceptionally difficult the time that it had been raining, his hands and feet having slipped and slided with every movement. 

But, eventually, he made it to the windowsill of the one bedroom filled with light and clutched onto it like his life depended on it. Richie saw Eddie through the windowpane then — he saw him sitting cross-legged on the pastel blue bedspread that was tucked in, flipping through an adventure comic book with his cheek resting in the palm of his hand.

Richie rapped on the windowpane, the faint tapping rhythmic as he remembered the tune that he had heard in the record store the day before. Eddie had started despite the softness to the sound, letting out an embarrassing squeak as he pitched the comic across the room in reaction to the sudden noise. Richie had almost laughed at the startled look on Eddies face, but the intense sting of his bleeding mouth prevented him from doing so.

Eddie Kaspbrak marched over and unhitched the window, forgetting about the misplaced comic book as he began scrutinizing the Richie that dangled from his windowframe. He had planned on telling Richie off, planned on listing off all of the outcomes of how his mother would kill him if she had found out that Richie had been over at this time of night, but then, he had noticed the circle of blood that rimmed the inside of Richies mouth, and the words faded. 

He then grabbed Richies wrist and guided him over the windowsill and into his bedroom. There had been water dripping from the clothes that Richie wore, but Eddie disregarded the issue. Richie had leaned over and removed his sodden sneakers, handing them to Eddie, who looked at them, wide-eyed, as his hypochondria kicked in, but it was gone as quick as it came, and Eddie placed the sneakers on the windowsill after he locked it once more.

Richie did not speak, instead sitting down on the pastel blue bedspread and hunkering over, elbows on knees. Eddie thought that he looked almost porcelain, what, with his corona of shining curls and his pallid skintone. He had been overcome with the image of Richie, still  _Richie_ , but with glass everything. Richie was fine, delicate china at that moment, tiny paintbrushes having had painted on the pinks of his cheeks and every single freckle on his face. Eddie swallowed, shaking the thought without much discreetness.

Nothing. Richie wouldn't speak. 

But Eddie Kaspbrak was still Eddie Kaspbrak, and  _Eddie Kaspbrak_  hated anything and everything that involved sickness. It was blatant that he had gotten better with his hypochondria as days stretched to months and months stretched to years. He would not admit it to himself that he had gotten better, for he believed himself not  _too bad_  before, but his friends knew how squeamish he had once been and knew that he had improved. But still . . . he twitched, knowing good and well that the water from Richies clothes would start seeping through the bedsheets, then the mattress, and ruin both of them. Eddie had half a mind to retrieve one of the extra towels from the hallway closet and coerce Richie to dry himself off, but one look at Richie stopped him from doing so. He had looked so vulnerable, so  _unlike_  himself that Eddie knew better than to leave him alone. Instead, Eddie placed himself beside Richie.

Eddie swallowed. He had once been an easily-frightened child — one that would wriggle at the mere thought of ( _disease!) (spiders!) (cancer!) (needles!) (lizards!_ ) coming face-to-face with what scared him. But Richie not speaking? That had scared him  _so_   _much_  more.

"What happened to you, Richie?" asked Eddie, his tone-of-voice smooth and delicate. "Who did this to you?"

"You're so cute when you're worried, Spaghetti," replied Richie, ignoring the question altogether. He had  _some_  of his usual demeanor intact, but not all.

Eddie had still rolled his eyes, elbowing Richies shoulder in response. "Shut up, Richie," he grumbled as if to sound less intimidating (if _Eddie Kaspbrak_ could be intimidating in the first place) and more condescending. 

"'Shut up, Richie'" — Richie chuckled, the sound dripping with something bitter rather than with its usual mirth — "You know,  _that_ is all I ever hear: 24 hours, 7 days of the week! 'Shut up, Richie!' 'Shut up, Richie!' 'Shut up, Richie!' Well, what would happen if I actually did? Would the fucking _world_  end?"

Richie was not heeding his tone, and Eddie  _needed_  to remind him that Mrs. Kaspbrak was sleeping just downstairs, but Richie was not stopping, nor lowering his voice like Eddie wished he would: "All that I'm ever good for is jokes, right? I'm the fucking comic relief of the Losers Club! I'm the one that doesn't  _need_  to be there but  _is_  there because he has nowhere else to go! I'm useless, all right? Just a worthless piece of trash!"

_youworthlesspieceoftrash!_

Eddie had heard enough of this nonsense, beeping Richie in an instant by grabbing his hand. "You, Richie, aren't any of those things! _Any_ of those things! You're so much more than that! You don't even know!" Eddie thought that he was horrible with words, and in some ways, he  _was_. He was known for repeating the same phrase over and over, more emphasized each time.

Richie knew not the soundest way to answer, so he closed his mouth. It was silent for once, and their hands remained intertwined. Eddie studied Richie then, delicate gaze trailing his expression. There were still tears coating his long, coal-colored eyelashes from when he had been crying, and God, Eddie wished that Richie would stop being so reserved and tell him what the hell happened. Eddie remained silent, choosing better than to press for information.

Richie was flushed brighter than Eddie had ever seen before, the apples of his cheeks an intense crimson against his sallow skin. Had Richie been . . . bashful?  _'No way! He couldn't be . . . Could he?'_ Eddie promptly dismissed it, shaking off the thought.   
  
Eddie almost screamed when his gaze had descended far enough to reach Richies mouth, just then noticing the blood lining the inside of Richies mouth of which had been there the entire time. He had noticed it before, but he had been too preoccupied with those damned sneakers and the miserable expression that Richie carried to act on his corporeal behalf. He muttered several curses underneath his breath as he released the hand that Richie had been holding suddenly, pulling several wads of Kleenex out of the tissue box on his bedside table.

Richie furrowed the second that Eddie Kaspbrak had whirled around and shoved the bundle of Kleenex into his hands.

"Put these in your mouth!" commanded Eddie, already half-way across the room as he headed toward the bathroom. Thankfully, his bedroom was connected to the bathroom, so he could still keep an eye on Richie as he searched for what he was looking for. He rummaged through the medical supplies in the drawers, eyebrows furrowed in apparent concentration. 

"You do know that they're  _paper_ , right, Doctor K?"  _Richie_ Richie was back for the moment, calling to Eddie. "They'll disintegrate?"

It had been _remarkable_ that Mrs. Kaspbrak hadn't already caught them together, for both of them weren't really ones for voice-control. Eddie figured that she must've switched her sleeping medication to something stronger, something almost tranquilizing, as the commotion that Richie and Eddie were causing would sure wake an _elephant_ from slumber. 

"Just do it for now, smartass!" Richie obeyed, but only since Eddie knew better than he did, shoving the wad of Kleenex into his mouth to absorb some of the blood.

It was then that Eddie succeeded in locating the gauze, pulling the bundle out with an audible "Aha!" as he hurled the drawers shut and hurried back into his bedroom. Richie shifted to him and grinned, the tissues stuffed into his mouth, looking like an actual chipmunk. Eddie snorted despite himself, grabbing his garbage bin from underneath his desk and holding it out to Richie, who spat the blood-soaked tissues from his mouth into it. It had made Eddie cringe, for the gross mixture of blood and spittle was rather unappetizing. He placed the garbage bin back onto the floor, choosing to deter his glance from lingering on the contents inside. Eddie ripped several of the square gauze packets open, then handed them to Richie, commanding he keep them in his mouth until the bleeding ceases. Eddie reclaimed his position beside Richie on the bedspread, glancing downward at his fingers before asking: "Do you, uh, want something to wear?"

Richie nodded, rather sheepish. 

Eddie then marched over to his bureau and shimmied the drawers until they opened, the squeaking of wood-against-wood that followed being almost deafening to both boys. He combed through his clothes until he found something fit for Richie. It for sure wasn't anything special — an oversized white tee shirt that was far too large to fit Eddie and navy-blue sweatpants that probably fit like shorts on Richie. Richie beamed when Eddie handed them to him, taking them without complaint. And Richie was never one for modesty, so he stripped right there in the middle of the bedroom. He was, of course, wearing underwear and Eddie had seen him in his underwear just hours before at the quarry, but he couldn't maintain the steadfast blush that blossomed onto his cheeks. He furrowed his eyebrows as Richie twisted around, pants pulled up and his shirt straightened out. When Richie had glanced back with raised eyebrows and an irritating shit-eating grin plastered across his face, Eddie had  _felt_  his face flare even brighter. Mentally, he shook his head several times. ' _Jesus, Kaspbrak! Pull yourself together!'_

"Check your gauze, Rich, so you can see if you've stopped bleeding."

Richie complied, spitting out the saliva-soaked gauze into the garbage container in one loud movement. Eddie twitched in response to the sight, mentally cursing himself for being _so damn weak_ around such miniscule things.

Eddie _knew_ that he had gotten better with his hypochondria, but there were some things that had gotten worse instead. There had once been an adolescent time of spitting loogies off the cliff down by the aforementioned quarry, contests for who could spit the biggest (or furthest, as Richie had once corrected him) one. It had all ended the further he and his friends ventured into that damned summer, the further he and his friends ventured into that damned _sewer_. Just the thought of it sent shivers down the spines of every member of the Losers Club. 

Richie was one who liked talking, but talking about what happened during 'that damned summer' was the one exception. He had, however, told Eddie once about what he and Bill had seen when they had been separated from Eddie back in the Neibolt House (or, more commonly known as, 'a fucking crackhead house'). Anyway, he had told Eddie about how he and Bill had _seen_ him (though it was not actually him) when he had ripped through the soiled mattress in one of the rooms, sputtering black blood as he asked, 'Wanna play loogie?' Richie, while he hadn't admitted it to Eddie, had been the most scared out of him and Bill, for Richie had been the one who he had fought with about 'playing loogie' back at the quarry earlier that summer. It had sparked the detesting Eddie had for spittle, all thanks to the source of what happened 'that damned summer', which, of course, Eddie couldn't for the life of him bring himself to call by name. 

He had reminded himself to take deep breaths before his inhaler was needed, because, then, Richie would see his emotional distress. 

_In . . . . . Out . . . . . In . . . . . Out . . . . ._

Richie, being as oblivious as always, had not noticed the sullen train of thought that had troubled Eddie, too busy with examining the saliva-soaked gauze in the garbage container. He would always be the braver one — Eddie knew — for, as far as Eddie knew, _he_ was not afraid of spit, and _he_ had been the one to see Not Eddie break through the mattress, spitting black blood all the while. 

_wannaplayloogie?_

Irish Cop Voice and all, Richie bellowed: "'M doin' jolly, m'boy! Foine! Foine! Just foine!" From the way he was acting, his mouth was apparently not bleeding anymore. 

Eddie was pretty good at masking his distress, but, then again, so was the rest of the Losers Club. "Lower your voice, Richie! You could've woken my mother! If she finds out that you're here she'll have a bird: I am _serious!_ " 

"But I'd love to wake your mother! We could have some fun after I stop bleeding like your moms vag on Halloween of '87! I mean, that was one helluva yea-"

"We don't speak of that, Richie!" Eddie was affronted, grimace apparent. "I thought we agreed!"

" _Bill_ agreed, but I didn't! I almost shitted myself laughing when we found that bloody tampo-"

"Shut up! I think you're an actual sleazeball _,_ Richie!" 

Richie smirked, lifting an eyebrow. "You think?"

"I  _know!_ " Eddie stretched the latter word, scowl in place. 

He crawled underneath his bedsheets at that, too tired to think. Richie had glanced this way and that, uncertain until Eddie patted the place beside him. Then, Eddie spoke, the previous bite to his words somehow gone. "You can stay here tonight if you make sure you're out by seven, okay? Like I said before: if my mother sees you, she'll have you skinned."

Richie murmured something of an agreement, staring at the ceiling once he had comfortably settled himself beside Eddie. He pulled of his glasses and set them beside the bed, on the floor. Instead of speaking, Richie pulled the bedsheets to his chin and settled further into the mattress. It was somewhat damp from where he had hunkered onto it before, but he didn't mind nearly as much as the prickling feeling somewhere inside of Eddie did. Eddie had still dismissed it, trying to move his mind onto other things like what could have happened to Richie to bring him to his window. 

It was silent for some time, but as always, Richie interrupted it, "Eddie?"

"Hmm?" 

"I-It was my mother who did it. Hit me, I mean. When I got home after seeing you and the others, she was there was she was _mad_. I was being cornered and I said some stuff about her and Dad and she slapped me. Hard. And I cried after she forced me out." Richie had spoken without much roundness to his voice, slurring his words together almost as if he were intoxicated with the desperate need to sleep. He had sounded somehow like his mother had earlier that day, slurred words and numb expressions. "I was so fucking scared, Ed. I didn't know what to do." He had sounded so vulnerable . . . so scared — two words that Eddie would've never associated with Richie Tozier in his life. 

"You're going to be okay, Richie. Everything'll turn out all right and . . . I promise it."

"Are you sure?" he demanded, the covers having stifled his voice. "Do you really promise?"

"Of course, I promise. . ." And then, Richie dropped off into slumber, having succumbed to the withering void of dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! xoxoxoxo


End file.
